Revelations on Book One
by D.L. SchizoAuthoress
Summary: Revelations Series--insights into 'The Philosopher's (Sorcerer's) Stone' (2 of ?)
1. 1

Title: Sorting Ceremony  
Author: SchizoAuthoress  
Rating: G  
Warnings: None too bad...readers may get a little confused.  
  
A/N: Wow, this must be my first G-rated fic! (The world may be coming to an end, but it   
better not! I still have stories to write!) I don't think that what I'm writing entails much   
angst or language...surprise, surprise!  
Oh yeah. "The table on the right" is Hufflepuff, the "table second from the left" is   
Ravenclaw, and the one "on the far left" is Gryffindor. With the High Table horizontal on   
the far wall across from the door, and the House tables vertical, left to right they are:   
Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Slythrin, and Hufflepuff. If I'm wrong, please correct me.  
  
"'Bulstrode, Millicent' then became a Slythrin. Perhaps it was Harry's imagination, after all he'd heard about Slythrin, but he thought they looked like an unpleasant lot."  
--Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone  
  
"Sorting Ceremony"  
  
"Bulstrode, Millicent!" Professor McGonagall calls out. She's a tall witch, with black hair,   
rich green robes, and a very stern face. I get the impression that she didn't like me; when   
I go up to the Sorting Hat, I see that she has her thin lips pursed and her eyes narrowed.  
  
The inside of the hat is dark. I sit for a moment, wondering whether anything is supposed   
to be happening.   
  
"Well, well...hello, dear." I jump slightly in surprise as a tiny voice whispers in my ear. "Let's   
see...hardworking, determined...perhaps Hufflepuff?"  
  
-With all those puddingheads?- I think in scorn, before I can stop myself. The hat's laugh   
rings like a small Christmas bell in the darkness.  
  
"Hm, perhaps not..." A moment of silence, and I begin to worry. Then, the hat says, "Ah, yes...  
this is interesting. You want to be a great Arithmancer...high goals, dear, extremely high goals.   
You would be perfect for SLYTHRIN!"  
  
I realize that the hat's last word was shouted for the whole Hall to hear. I'm a Slythrin...  
  
I remove the Sorting Hat, placing it carefully on the stool. I'm a Slythrin...like my dad. He'll be   
so proud...  
  
The table next to Hufflepuff's explodes with cheers. I walk over to it, a shy smile on my face.   
I know that I'm blushing.  
****  
"Crabbe, Vincent!"  
  
I'm so nervous, when Professor McGonagall calls my name, Goyle has to poke me in the side to   
get me moving toward the Sorting Hat. It feels like everyone is staring at me, which makes me   
fumble clumsily as I put the hat on my head.  
  
"Vincent Crabbe," murmurs a tiny voice that I guess to be the Sorting Hat's. "How lovely. Don't be   
so worried, Vincent, I won't place you wrong. This is easy...such deviousness, to make others   
think that your strength means little intelligence. 'Twill give you an advantage, one of these days, my   
dear young SLYTHRIN!"  
  
I resist the urge to laugh. Of course the Hat would see through my little ploy. But no one else had,   
and that was the important thing. I join Millicent at the Slythrin table.  
  
She's flushed and still a bit breathless as she greets me. "Hello, Crabbe." My father and hers went   
to Hogwarts, but Dad was in the year ahead. I smile politely, keeping my attention fixed on Goyle and   
Draco, both of them still Unsorted.  
****  
"Goyle, Gregory!"  
  
I'm paying attention. When McGonagall calls my name, I go up to the Hat. I put it on and sit down. It   
falls over my eyes, which is funny. It didn't look so big sitting on the stool.  
  
"Hello, Gregory Goyle." A little voice whispers. Must be the hat.  
  
-Just Goyle.- I say in my head. The hat laughs.  
  
"Oh, yes. I see that you are friends with Crabbe? Well, that's important. He can help you in your   
ambitions to--"  
  
-I want to be a good wizard.- I explain. The hat laughs again.   
  
"Of course you do, Goyle. So, off you go, my dedicated Hogwarts pupil, to SLYTHRIN!"  
****  
I try to put a self-assured swagger in my step, going up to the Sorting Hat after my name is called.   
But I'm worried. What if I'm wrong, and they put me in Hufflepuff?  
  
'Look confident,' Mother instructed this morning, before Father and I left for King's Cross, 'it makes   
people respect you.'  
  
Not that she wanted me to swagger up to the Hogwarts Sorting Hat. She spent years trying to push   
Father into enrolling me in Durmstrang. But once my letter of acceptance arrived from Hogwarts, he   
was adamant that I go to his alma mater.  
  
The hat slips down over my eyes. The voice of the hat whispers quickly, "Ah, Draco Malfoy. Very like   
your father, you know. You belong in SLYTHRIN!"  
  
Releif floods me. Crabbe and Goyle are cheering the loudest as I go to join them at the Slythrin table.   
Father will be pleased when he recieves my letter about this.  
****  
"Parkinson, Pansy!" Professor McGonagall yells. I shove my way out of the gathering of first-years   
and go to the stool. Picking up the Sorting Hat, I shove it down on my head. Best to get this over with   
and quickly.  
  
The Sorting Hat whispers, "Pansy, eh? Pretty little girl, so full of the drive to succeed."  
  
-I'm not pretty.- I think, -And that's not even the point. Where do I go?-  
  
"Patience, dear, patience. It will get you farther than any other virtue...save maybe your cunning and   
guile. Pansy, my willful little flower, you're through-and-through a SLYTHRIN!"  
****  
"Zabini, Blaise!"  
  
"Oh, God..." I whisper, "P-p-please let me be in a g-good House..."  
  
I'm the last one, as usual. I place the hat on my head and sit down. It's a good thing that no one can   
see the terror on my face anymore.  
  
"Blaise, Blaise..." The hat murmurs, "Interesting name. 'One who lisps or stammers', isn't it? Fitting,   
I suppose. Well, to business! A fine, quick mind you have, my friend. Perhaps Ravenclaw?"  
  
-I don't think...I mean, I'm not *that* smart.-  
  
"Hm...well, it would be worth the challenge...but you are quite sure? Really, well...your father was in   
Slythrin, wasn't he? Very smart, he was. Turned out well, too. There, I suppose, is a good place for   
you as well."  
  
-You mean it? I'm a Slythrin?- I ask excitedly.  
  
"Exactly, Blaise, exactly. You're a SLYTHRIN!"  
  
  
**Finis** 


	2. 2

Title: Caught  
Author: SchizoAuthoress  
Rating: R  
Warnings: Strong language, spoilers for all the books  
  
A/N: Snape centers the fic, flanked by possibly the most underappreciated character of the   
HP universe--Argus Filch. No slash! Shame on you for even thinking that! Ew, now I feel   
dirty...Seriously? I actually like the dynamics of this idea: Why, exactly, does Snape trust   
Filch enough to show him his Fluffy-inflicted wounds and even *tell* him how he got them?  
  
"Snape and Filch were inside, alone. Snape was holding his robes above his knees. One of his legs was bloody and mangled. Filch was handing Snape bandages.  
'Blasted thing,' Snape was saying. 'How are you supposed to keep your eyes on all three heads at once?'  
Harry tried to shut the door quietly but--  
'POTTER!'  
Snape's face twisted with fury as he dropped his robes quickly to hide his leg. Harry gulped.  
'I just wondered if I could have my book back.'  
'GET OUT! *OUT*!'"  
--Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone  
  
"Caught"  
Argus Filch realized that Professor Snape was limping when he entered the main hall.   
He scrambled over and said, "What happened? Are you all right?"  
  
"No, I'm not all damned right." Snape hissed through gritted teeth. The old caretaker of   
the castle flinched at his harsh tone. Of all the teachers at Hogwarts, Filch feared only Snape.  
  
"Let's get you to the Hospital Wing then."  
  
"No!" Filch's pale eyes registered surprise at the note of panic in Snape's voice. The   
younger man was leaning heavily on him, but he staggered to his feet and regained his   
balance. "Madame Pomfrey doesn't need to be involved."  
  
A look of comprehension lighted Filch's face as he murmured, "I see. The staff room is   
empty. We'll go there."  
****  
Filch prided himself on knowing something about every student who had ever passed   
through the halls of Hogwarts during his stint as caretaker. What he knew about Severus   
Snape made him extremely cautious around the dark-eyed, enigmatic Potions Master.  
  
Snape had been a Death Eater. Filch was a Squib. Little more than a decade ago,   
Filch was the sort of person that Snape killed on a regular basis. But that wasn't the whole   
reason why Filch feared him.  
  
Snape was also the only teacher who treated Filch like an equal, sharing with the old   
man his opinions on many things (they saw eye-to-eye on a majority of those things), and   
sharing with him too a very strange and dark secret.  
  
The Philosopher's Stone of Nicholas Flamel was in Hogwarts, the third-floor corridor on   
the right-hand side. Filch knew that, but only because Snape had told him. Dumbledore   
was the one with superiority issues, Filch had decided long ago. Except for the times when   
Filch consistently bothered the Headmaster over matters like closing off cursed rooms or   
clearing out one of the hidden passages, Dumbledore was very secretive about the   
restrictions he saw fit to place on the castle.  
  
Filch was worried. Why *had* Snape told him so much about the Philosopher's Stone?   
Did he mean for Filch to be killed off later, once he'd served his purpose? The caretaker   
wouldn't have put it past him.  
****  
Snape collapsed onto one of the chairs in the staff room and shut his eyes, grimacing   
against the pain. "It was Quirrell," he groaned.  
  
"Quirrell, Quirrell...he was in the year below you, wasn't he?" Filch asked as he went to   
find some bandages and antibacterial solutions.   
  
"Yes..." Snape muttered. "Slatero Quirrell...he was in the same year as my sister...I   
never thought that he..."  
  
Filch squatted beside Snape's chair. Snape tugged his robes up over his knees,   
revealing the extent of the damage wrought by Hagrid's Fluffy. "People are never what we   
think they are...this is going to sting."  
  
The solution bubbled as he dabbed it carefully onto Snape's leg. Wincing, Snape   
commented, "I don't know how he's doing it, though."  
  
"Doing what?" Filch asked.   
  
"Speaking to the Dark Lord." Snape answered. "My Mark is still as faded as it was   
after his downfall."  
  
"Hm. Isn't Slatero supposed to be talented in the Dark Arts?" Using a fresh handcloth,   
Filch cleaned Snape's limb of blood and solution. "If so, could he have used some...ritual   
or...well, I'm not sure. But he could have done something to contact You-Know-Who,   
couldn't he?"  
  
"It's possible." Snpe admitted. Filch poured a different, stronger solution on this time.   
Snape snarled, "Shit! Will you at least warn me the next time you decide to pour liquid   
fucking fire on me?"  
  
"Sorry. Hell, it's not *my* freak-dog that bit you. I don't even like damned dogs." Filch   
grunted. When Snape's leg was dried again, he passed the professor a roll of cloth   
bandages.  
  
"Blasted thing. How are you supposed to keep your eyes on all three heads at once?"   
Snape complained. Suddenly, his head jerked upward, his dark eyes flashing toward the   
door.  
  
"POTTER!" He bellowed, dropping his robes to hide his leg. Potter looked like he'd   
just come face-to-face with a very peeved manticore.  
  
"I just wondered if I could have my book back," he said in a very scared, strangled voice.   
Snape would hear none of it.  
  
"GET OUT! *OUT*!" He roared.   
  
Harry was gone. Filch snarled, "Damned nosy brat. Just like his bloody talented   
father. Just like all these little wand-waving bastards." He got up and shut the door.  
  
Snape had finished wrapping his leg. He growled, "That nosiness of Potter's will get   
him nowhere but a bad end."  
  
Suddenly, Filch shuddered. "Professor...you may be right. I've got a bad feeling...   
something about the Quidditch match. I don't know...but...watch out for Slatero, will you?"  
  
Snape studied the old man with a new intensity. Filch may have been a Squib, but he   
was not without usefulness beyond his cleaning abilities. The thing about Filch's 'bad   
feelings' was that they were rarely ever far off the mark.  
  
"Do you think he'll try to get the Stone during the match?" Snape inquired. Filch shook   
his head.  
  
"No, no...but something. He's going to try something. I know it." Filch turned his pale,   
lamplike eyes imploringly on Snape. "Please, Professor, don't let anything happen."  
  
Snape regarded Filch quietly. Being unused to most forms of magic (his range of   
experience encompassed only the messes left behind), Argus Filch was easily frightened   
by his uncanny ability to tell when people on the grounds of Hogwarts were up to no good.   
But he was usually not aware of it, and that was what made him such an excellent   
caretaker.  
  
The Professor patted him on the shoulder in a rare display of almost filial affections. He   
said reassuringly, "Nothing will happen if I can stop it, Argus." 


End file.
